A reckless concertmaster, a determined conductor, and a priceless violin turn Andy into a substitute soloist!

Desperate for a music job, Andy joins an orchestra. He’s so unprepared that he assumes each rehearsal will be his last. When the concertmaster flees mid-concert under suspicious circumstances, however, Andy takes control. Impressed with his quick thinking, the conductor recruits Andy for a European tour to secretly chase after the concertmaster. Andy accepts the challenge, but at every step he imagines that his girlfriend will discover and expose his double purpose. Worse, despite all the hours spent rehearsing, how will he explain himself when his fellow musicians realize that he’s a fraud?

Book Launch Fun! Here I'm introducing guest of honor Maestro Linus Lerner, who provided a role model for a central character in both Dizzy in Durango and Substitute Soloist. Linus conducts the Southern Arizona Symphony Orchestra, the orchestra I currently play with. (below)

Read more here about D.R.'s choice of Delft, one of the settings in the novel.

or.....

Why not dive right in and read the first chapter?

Chapter One“Twenty-two. Yours?” “Sixteen. But Zoran gave me a deal.” I was waiting for the start of my first rehearsal with Tucson’s professional orchestra, but I already felt more displaced than an opera singer with permanent laryngitis. The two violinists sitting behind me were discussing how expensive their instruments were. The young men weren’t talking about twenty-two or thirteen hundred dollars. They were talking about twenty-two or thirteen thousand. I tried to slump down, which is hard to do when you’re six feet tall. I knew before entering the rehearsal hall that I was in for a challenge, but I needed the job. I’d aced the audition because I happened to know the music of the conductor’s favorite composer, but by now I wasn’t sure whether to thank my luck or send it back. “Zoran made Liza’s violin too, but they say hers is magical. I’ve heard the conductor bought it for her, but Zoran won’t say. Have you ever played it?” “Are you kidding? The other day I straightened it so that it wouldn’t fall off her chair, and she almost broke my hand.” “Was that the day she broke the conductor’s baton?” “No. That was the week before.” “I’m surprised Moraes didn’t kill her.” “From the way she snapped at him, I’m more surprised she didn’t kill him!” Domingos Rezende Moraes was the conductor, a Brazilian the orchestra had imported from Europe. He was equally at home with Latin or classical rhythms and probably played a dozen instruments. When I auditioned, he noticed that I played in the key of F instead of F#. Being able to recognize such a difference made him the keenest musician I’d worked with in over twenty years of musical performance. He was a brilliant musician, and he was confident, competent, and self-assured. I couldn’t imagine a musician having the nerve to snap at him. In the classical world, conductors were gods. Musicians who wanted to keep working recognized that fact and honored it. They also honored the rehearsal schedule. The hall filled quickly as the remaining musicians slid into their seats and assembled their instruments. Then they adjusted their music stands, a quarter of an inch this way, a third of an inch that way, as if the height of the stand would make a difference in performance. Then they adjusted their chairs, shifting noisily to the left and right and back again, a sure sign that, no matter how much their instruments cost, their real concern was appeasing Moraes. I attached my shoulder rest to my violin. I didn’t get it on quite right, but I didn’t want to join my fellow neurotics, so I left it as it was, slightly crooked, slightly awkward. That was exactly the way I felt. I tried to blame my feelings on the room, but the rehearsal hall was perfectly normal. It was wide enough to give some seventy musicians enough room to play without banging into one another. As usual, the first violins occupied a column to the left of the podium, two musicians to a stand, six stands altogether. The second violins had the next column and a similar number. The winds sat in the middle with the brass completing the ring behind them and the timpani and other percussion behind them. To the right of the podium were the cellos and then the violas. The basses sat behind the cellos on special high stools. For a moment I felt like I was back in college, which was the last time I’d played classical music. In the meantime two decades of mariachi playing had sped right by me. Evidently I hadn’t even noticed. The musicians filled the room with a cacophony of scales and tricky passages. I did no such thing. I didn’t want a single person to hear me until it was imperative for them to do so. The position I’d won was the fourth chair of the first violin section. That meant I was on the left-hand side of the second music stand, which put me so close to the conductor that he would be able to identify every wrong note I played. I plucked each of my four strings to check the intonation. The sounds were dull but perfectly in tune. This was the best I could hope for. I might have bought more expensive strings, but the sixty-dollar investment wouldn’t have made a noticeable improvement. Instead of playing, I sat back and patted my Roth like a father consoling a child who placed last in a competition. Three decades earlier my parents had paid nearly a thousand dollars for it. The violin was fine for mariachi gigs. By now it was a best friend, an extension of myself. I knew it so well that I could identify most of the scratches. I’d scraped a cufflink on the front one time when my brother Joey and I were goofing around during the intermission of a concert. Another time I’d tossed Joey a set of keys, and he’d used the violin as a shield. Though I was the slightly older brother, back then we shared one instrument. Up until now, the Roth had served me just fine. I listened for more snatches of violin lore, but by now the violins were sawing away as if they needed to punish their bows to make sure they behaved. By this time of the evening, such a frantic warm-up was expected. The long list of rules I’d received along with my contract stated that rehearsals started ON TIME and that I was required to arrive ten minutes beforehand. Indeed, Moraes was at the podium leafing through the score, but the concertmaster, who was the lead violinist and most important player in the orchestra, hadn’t yet arrived. For the moment the maestro was standing on the podium, a four-by-four wooden square. He was pretending to review TheWilliam Tell Overture, but he was killing time. He would have already mastered the score, but his focus was so strong that he could ignore all the other noise and concentrate on the music in his head. A few years older than I, he was a charismatic charmer with pale green eyes and large ears. He had unruly black hair that threatened to explode off his head, but he took no notice. He was only about five-eight, but he carried himself as if he were a giant. Maybe he thought he was. A burly fellow sat down in the chair to my right, thus identifying himself as my stand partner. His wild red beard stretched below his neck, and it was so thick he might have carried his bow in it.The man winked. “So you’re the new guy.” “Until Moraes figures out I’m an imposter and zaps me with his lightsaber. I’m Andy.” “Kenny.” He extended his right hand while holding his violin and bow in the other. “Please to meet you. Welcome to boot camp. But you can’t be that bad or Moraes would have zapped you at the audition.” “I wowed him by sight-reading Villa-Lobos.” “Who doesn’t?”Kenny assumed I was joking, but I wasn’t. “Who’s Zoran?”My partner stretched high enough to view the players in the cello section. “I think he’s at a luthier competition, so he might be skipping this concert.” I indicated the empty chair that was diagonally in front of me. “Where’s the concertmaster?” “You mean concertmistress,” said Kenny. “Or maybe that word isn’t PC.” The thin thirty-something man sitting directly before me stopped practicing long enough to spin around. “You mean concert bitch. She’ll be here.” Given the normally fake-polite gentility of the classical world, his use of language surprised me. However, my fellow mariachi players usually inserted the f-word two or three times per sentence, so for a moment I felt at home. The man extended his hand. “I’m Philip, by the way.” “Andy. Pleased to meet you. And she’s a bitch because...?” “Oh, you’ll see,” Kenny said. “Immediately.” He checked his watch. “It’s six-fifty-nine. She’ll be here in 3-2-1.” On cue a woman blasted into the rehearsal room as if she owned it. Blond hair was piled on top of her head, and her slender green eyes matched the green in her sweater. She was about five-feet high, but her ridiculous high heels added another few inches. I was surprised she could walk. Actually the woman did more of a march, cutting through the room in seconds despite a tight black skirt that didn’t allow much movement. Instead of politely placing her violin case off to the side where it wouldn’t be in the way, she plunked it down beside her chair. In fluid movements, she pulled a red-tinted violin from her case, slapped on a shoulder rest, extracted and tightened her bow, and indicated that she was ready to start. Between her clothing, her stride, and her defiant manner, she reminded me of the strong Hispanic women on my mother’s side of the family. She had something to prove. She would no doubt bowl over anyone who got in her way of doing so. Moraes called her to the podium. In Spanish they quickly and softly conversed about the score as if they were having a private conversation. I caught every word: the tempo here, the crescendo there. Nothing noteworthy. “What’s up with that?” I asked Kenny. “The podium? It was specially made for Moraes. He hip-hops when he conducts. He’s pounded through two regular models already. This one is industrial. Oak, I think.” “No, I mean, is she with Moraes?” Usually I enjoyed being distracted by women. I sensed this one was an exception. “Liza? Some say so. For his sake I hope not. They come to the concerts together, though. Otherwise we’d never start on time.” The rehearsal started four minutes late, and I was thankful for each of them. Moraes bullied his way through the overture before forcing us through the Mozart clarinet concerto. He knew the entrance for every instrument even though he only had enough hands to cue two musical sections at once. In contrast to the less skilled conductors I’d experienced in college, Moraes identified every note. Without calling us to a halt, he would yell for the trombone to play a B instead of a B-flat or for the flutes to stop playing sharp. When we came upon a particularly grueling measure, Moraes would have us play it five or six times. He was neither grim nor cheerful. Instead he was straightforward. “Winds, you missed the cue at Measure 40. Oboes, you can bring the volume down at Measure 94. You’re covering the bassoon.” My goal was to evade Moraes’ attention. I was used to being the boss, not having one. I’d headed a mariachi in Southern California until the restaurant folded. Then I’d followed a fellow player to Tucson, where the only decent group didn’t need another violinist. I’d turned to the orchestra because I preferred a music job to anything else, but technically I was on trial. Moraes could terminate me at any time. He wouldn’t hesitate if he felt any reason to do so.Suddenly I envied the second violinists. They didn’t carry the melody as often as the firsts, and they didn’t have as many high notes that called for delicate fingering. The firsts spent half their time on the E-string. Not only were the sounds shrill, but sometimes the string was so taut that it snapped mid-performance. You had to pay attention so that a wayward piece of steel didn’t sting your nose. I struggled to concentrate on the written music, but I had to fight with myself. For twenty years I’d played by ear, so the discipline of reading each note was taxing. So was the entire rehearsal. I even had trouble with the overture, which should have been the easiest of the selections, because I’d been practicing way under tempo. I did better with the concerto. I’d been listening to it on the Internet for the last few days, and I loved the lyrical melodies. I even remembered most of them. The concertmaster, however, didn’t play the concerto according to the score. She took liberties with rhythms. She held notes unexpectedly, which confused the rest of us, including the clarinetist who was the soloist. Liza wouldn’t have noticed that we were scrambling to follow her, however. She was playing in her own bubble, her own little world.I was surprised that Moraes granted her such leeway, but I couldn’t deny that she played well. She shifted gracefully, hitting each note squarely on the top instead of adjusting to improve intonation. She played deliberately and passionately as if she were the only artist in the room. Moraes often frowned as he turned to her, but he followed her erratic interpretations rather than stopping the orchestra. This wasn’t out of concern for our well-being. We only had two rehearsals before the concert, so Moraes couldn’t stop for every detail. Instead he worked us as hard as possible. By the time we completed our two-and-a-half hours, I was drained. Worse yet, I’d made a long list of passages I needed to review at home before I braved another rehearsal.I packed up my violin and exchanged cursory “good nights” with Kenny and Philip. Kenny assured me I’d done a good job, but I was aware that he had outplayed me. Twice he’d even shown me where we were. For the thousandth time, I wished I were back with my mariachi. By the time I unlocked Rachel’s Prizm and stored my Roth in the trunk, I felt defeated. I didn’t have a car of my own, and I’d left my scooter back in California. Hence I didn’t have my own wheels; I was living on charity. I was so distracted that I missed a turn and found myself on Broadway, which was a mile too far south. I did a U-turn, legal at most Tucson intersections, and headed towards the university area. The time of my arrival didn’t make any difference. Rachel wouldn’t be home for another hour or so. She would still be at her mariachi restaurant having a whole lot more fun than I had. I kept praying she could convince her boss to include another violinist in the group, but so far Heriberto claimed he didn’t have enough diners. The scenario was familiar. Back at Noche Azul Restaurant, we’d been on an even tighter shoestring budget. I was the sole violin accompanied by the other mandatory elements: a trumpet to help with melody lines, a vihuela for upbeats, a guitarrón for downbeats. Once I reached Rachel’s duplex, I shuffled up the creaky steps to the front porch. Before entering, I paused for a few moments on the porch swing. The January night was chilly, but I was still hot from all the bowing. I’d worked harder reading music than I would have in a week performing mariachi gigs. When I finally headed inside, a streak of white fur scooted out. Treetop had her own cat door, but she preferred to squeeze past me as if to emphasize the message that I was merely a visitor. Despite the ungrateful feline, I appreciated the homey living room. Rachel didn’t have a high-end apartment. She had a space that she’d made her own. A mishmash of artwork colored the walls, including pieces from Mexico and others from Thailand, where she’d traveled with her sister. Bean bag chairs served as couches, not because she couldn’t afford better furniture but because she liked sitting on the floor. I would have sprawled out across the vinyl, but I knew what was best for me. I took out my violin and spent the next ninety minutes reviewing passages.